


Afterthought

by PrincessaBitchessa



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Post-Episode: s02e12 Master Plan, Post-Season 2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:15:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28418217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessaBitchessa/pseuds/PrincessaBitchessa
Summary: Stiles isn't depressed. No really. He isn't.He's just tired of everything and ready to get away from the absolute hell that is Beacon Hills, and if that means he has to take his own death, then so be it.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So. It's been a while, but I am back with some more borderline shit. Please enjoy.

If I could fly away from my worries,  
I would not hesitate.  
I would rather lay down my very life  
Than suffer here in such a way for any longer.  
Do not judge me for my wishing my strife to be over,  
But instead respect my bravery for trying to survive in a world actively against me.

You may never call me weak for you have no idea what I have endured,  
Nor may you call me callous and cruel for leaving so many behind;  
Rather, call me your hero because I know you long to have the courage I do.

After all, killing yourself is a tedious process,  
A task that many lack the balls.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So actually this all happens just after Stiles got home after being kidnapped from the lacrosse game. I will be adding more context to the next chapter.

Disappearing is hard to do. It involves a certain dedication and awareness, along with a certain mindset. A person has to be smart and quick to get away clean and have no innocent and well meaning bystanders (read: _fucking snitches_ ) around for when they make their break. A person also has to be under no disillusions about what they're doing, and that the outcome will most likely be that one day they will be found.

This probable eventuality suits one Stiles Stilinski since he's surrounded by an abundance of idiots. He has already began to guesstimate the probable time frame for anyone realizing he's missing, and all signs pointed towards the realization period happening approximately two weeks after he’s good and gone, but if everyone is particularly self-absorbed (the likely case-scenario), it may be closer to a month or two.

That means he should have just enough time to make it to Texas but leave enough minute clues that make it seem as if he was headed towards the Big Apple. Then again, the longer it takes for them to realize he’s gone, the colder the trail will be and the more settled and prepared he’ll be.

Stiles smirks to himself. His escape plan may not have been perfect, but it was definitely good enough to fool everyone and cause arguing between the ones that would be searching for him. So far, Stiles had the entirety of the remaking Sheriff’s station, Melissa, and maybe Derek and Isaac looking for him, but he didn’t bank on much since it was supposed the rain on and off for the next couple of days.

Rolling his eyes, the teen scoffed to himself. It was a half-baked, but it was still way better than any of the ones Derek or the rest of his groupies had ever come up with. If alpha-good was picked due to basic common sense, there’s not a doubt in Stiles’ mind that he’d definitely be the alpha.

He scoffed again. ‘Maybe if I was, then so many people wouldn't be dead. I’d actually get stuff done instead of wallowing in self-pity,’ he thought. With a shake of his head, Stiles threw himself into packing his third and final bag. He was beyond ready to go and his Jeep was already headed towards a Lookout Point a few counties over, ready to be involved in a “fatal” accident involving one supposed Mieczysław Genim “Stiles” Stilinski.

Zipping his lightly-packed duffel and stilling his fingers, he wondered if he was doing the right thing. Realistically speaking, there weren’t many ways this could end easily (or even remotely in his favor), despite the fact that he already had a new identity prepped and ready to go. As soon as the dummy body was found, he wouldn’t ever be able to come home, and if anyone figured out that he was still alive and kicking, he would become a fugitive for faking his own death.

Was this really worth it?

Picking up his phone, Stiles held his breath, hoping for even thee slightest hint that his father had forgiven him or that Scott had finally remembered his existence, but there wasn't a single notification on Stiles' lock screen, not even an alert from his Twitter.

"I guess that answers that question," he mumbled. There really was no other course of action.

Taking a breath to mourn his beloved Roscoe, he began double-checking his room while continuing his internal argument. He knew this was a drastic course of action, but Stiles knows how this stuff works, and if he stayed, he knew he'd be stuck in this crazy and vicious cycle of having his ass kicked by everything supernatural and supernatural-adjacent while mentally hating himself for not being strong enough to do and endure more. He didn't want to live like that. He _couldn't_ live like that. He couldn't do this whole "pretending everything is okay” thing like everyone else could. He couldn't just get up and walk away after almost dying every other day like every other person who knew about the town's bullshit could.

Everyone, including Stiles, failed to remember that he was only human, and an adolescent one at that. He was only _16 years of age_ , yet here he was dealing with psychotic and murderous Argents, things that go bump in the night, and looks death in the eye every other night. He didn't even have a shoulder to cry on or an ear to rant into since no one, not even his father, wanted to give him the time of day, let alone be his pseudo-therapist. He had no one left, _nothing_ left but himself, and he'd be damned if he let himself die—or worse, become a shell of his former self, forever haunted by deaths of loved ones and consumed by guilt like either of the Hales—rather than get out while he still can and live a normal fucking life.

He was getting the fuck out of Beacon Hills no matter what and he wouldn't let—

The doorbell and aggressive knocking from the front door pulled Stiles from his head. He paused and strained his ears to see what he could hear as his body tensed. He couldn’t hear anything with his measly human ears, but just because there were no immediate gunshots didn’t mean that the Argents didn’t swing back around for another round. Looking around for a weapon, Stiles mentally ran through the possibilities of what could be happening downstairs. Liking none of them, he closed his lock-lacking bedroom door, opened his window wide, and began tossing his bags out to the ground below.

Looking at the frosted grass ready to break his fall, he tried to psyche himself up to jump, but when he heard the top step creak under someone's weight, he swung his legs out, ducked his head, and pushed...

Just as he heard his bedroom door slowly swing open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if you spotted any grammatical errors.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm definitely going in a completely different direction than I had planned, but that is okay.

All the lights were on inside of the first floor of the Stilinski residence, yet every other house on the street only had porch lights on.

Noticing this, his low groan filled the air. He wasn't ready to deal with this _ever_ , but especially not with his entire body feeling like he was just trampled by a stampede of bulls. Every exhale was just a high-pitched squeak, and the lack of oxygen was starting to make black spots dance along his line of vision. His legs were barely supporting him at this point, and his was shaking he was so cold.

Stiles had been in and out of the hospital too many times during his life to not recognize at least the most obvious of the issues:

  * he had at least two broken ribs,
  * he had a concussion, and
  * he was in shock. 



He knew there were probably way more affected areas of his body that were abused during the Argents' interrogation, but he couldn't feel any of his extremities and could barely stand or see, and really just wanted to cry into his pillow and sleep for an entire year.

Why did this shit have to happen to him?

Finally reaching the front door, Stiles wasn't surprised to find it unlocked. He slowly turned the knob, but wasn't surprised that it was yanked open before he could begin to push it open.

"Where the hell have you been?"

His dad never yells. He hates it, but here he is yelling at Stiles as he limps through the doorway into his house with a splitting headache.

“No one could find you! No one knew where you were! _I_ didn't know where you were. Do you know how worried I was?” His dad released a heavy sigh and picked up again in a quieter tone. "The only reason why there isn't a search party out there combing the town for you is because _Scott_ assured me that he saw you leave with a girl.”

Pausing his slow ascent up the steps, Stiles scoffed and shook his head. "Of course,” he muttered under his breath. It always came back to Scott McCall, and he was sick of it. He knew his dad wished Scott was his son instead of Stiles, especially since his father couldn't help but to voice this every time the two were in a room with him. He was beyond over it, and resumed walking up the steps, but apparently his father wasn't finished making him feel like complete shit for getting kidnapped.

“Hold it. I never gave you permission to go up those stairs. Our conversation is no where near finished, so bring your butt back down the stairs, and sit on the couch while we discuss your punishment.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Why should I?" He was not in the mood for his father's temper tantrum. He just wanted to sleep the pain off.

“Watch your mouth, Mieczysław. If anything, I should be the one with an attitude, yet here you are filled with so much attitude at three in the morning,” the man mocked. “Park it. I will not repeat myself.”

He could feel his hard stare from the steps. Stiles debated the pros and cons of just continuing up the stairs and falling into his bed, but he didn't have a lock on his door and knew that his dad would follow him into his room and make an even bigger deal about the whole thing. On the other hand, he wouldn't have to pretend to be okay and have to hide all of his winces if he got into his bed and faced the wall while his dad read him his list of revoked rights. “This fucking sucks,” he groaned to himself, before he about-faced and shuffled back down the stairs that he had only made it half of the way up.

Going down the stairs didn't take as long as going up them, which the teen was disappointed about. Nothing had worked out in his favor tonight besides the game, which was truly just his luck. It was as if the universe was continuously reminding him that he wasn't allowed to be happy and have good things happen to him, and he didn't know why. At this point he wasn't all that angry about it, but he still hated his life.

Signing at the comedy that was his life, Stiles plopped onto the couch and waited for his dad's next words to make him feel even more like cow manure, but instead, he received a gasp.

His father rushed to him. “What the hell happened to your fact? What happened?”

Stiles would facepalm if he could feel either of his arms. He forgot that the old man got some face hits in. Now his dad would ask hard questions, _and_ expect actual truthful answers in return.

This had officially become the worst night ever.

He looked down at his blood-crusted converse not being able to handle the way his father was looking at him. He wore the same expression he had worn when he first noticed Stiles' mom was having issues with everyday tasks and was taking it out on Stiles. He looked broken and worried and scared and Stiles hated that with every fiber of his being.

He felt his dad's hands cup his face like he used to when Stiles was a child and would scrape his chin during a fall, but Stiles couldn't handle it. He gently wiggled his face out of his father's hands, and pasted on a glass smile. "You think this is bad, you should see the other guy.”

That sentence had the opposite effect than Stiles planned, with his dad tensing up and letting out a sound that was eerily similar to a sob than he was comfortable with. He wasn't the best at providing reassurance to people, especially not his tough and monster-fighting father. He didn't know now to fix this. “I’ll be fine!” he tried to placate, “I can almost definitely guarantee that my face was the least attacked part of my body.” Within the second after he had finished panic-blurting out that sentence, he realized his mistake and hung his head. "That didn't make you feel better at all, did it?”

Noah Stilinski swiftly rose to his feet. "We're going to the hospital right now." His dad was already throwing an old pair of boots on and had his jacket in crook of his right elbow by the time Stiles even comprehended what his father had said, but when he did, he immediately opened his mouth to vehemently protest this idea. "Stiles, I will call for a bus if you don't walk out of this door and get into my cruiser within the next ten seconds.”

Stiles knew that there was no getting out of this one. His dad was speaking in his cop voice, which meant that his convictions were strong and that his threats were promises.

Shaking his head, he slowly lead the way out to the cruiser, and slid into its backseat, then switched to sprawling out onto his back.

He could already see his dad's face once he saw the rest of his injuries, and he know his already long night was going to be even longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How would you guys feel if I added a single character from another fandom in here? She wouldn't be as tragic as she was in her fandom, BUT AT LEAST SHE WOULD HAVE A FIGHTING CHANCE😭

**Author's Note:**

> The whole story definitely isn't going to be in this format, so don't worry. I just wanted to try something new.


End file.
